


Rash Waistcoats and Leather Trousers

by AMarguerite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Leather Trousers, truly unfortunate puns, unsubtle allusions to Bertie Wooster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was asked to write about Bahorel, Grantaire and Joly's attempts to purchase leather trousers. Naturally, mayhem ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rash Waistcoats and Leather Trousers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hammie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammie/gifts).



“My dear fellow, so one must please her, be elegant, make an effect with your knees,” advised Bahorel, with a wink. Joly looked heavenward and was about to ask Bahorel if he thought Joly was wholly incapable of seeing to a woman's pleasure when Bahorel said, far too innocently, “Buy yourself, at Staub’s, a good pair of leather trousers. That’ll do it.”

“How much?” asked Grantiare, interrupting, for once, with something relevant to the conversation.

“They are very reasonable, at Staub’s,” Bahorel replied. “If you are at the end of the quarter, you may have to eat at Rousseau’s for the next few weeks, but it is worth the investment. Joly, do you give up?”

Joly observed the complicated labyrinth of dominos before him, and sighed. “On the game at least. And so you put your faith in leather trousers?”

“They have always worked for me,” said Bahorel, rather complacently.

Joly scooted his chair back to address Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who were watching a copy of the Touquet Charter burn in the fireplace. “Oh la-- have you a minute?”

Courfeyrac had just thrown the charter into the fire, was enormously pleased with himself and looked about to respond. But Combeferre, more accustomed to dispensing advice to Joly, broke in with a mild, “Yes-- do you need another arm to dissect?”

Courfeyrac and Bahorel were both thrown by that, but Joly waved this away. “Er, no thank you, my land lady still hasn’t recovered from the last time you tutored me in anatomy.”

“Ah, and you are on the legs now, regardless.” Combeferre smiled. “Well then, how can I be of assistance?”

Truthfully, Joly had meant to address his question to Courfeyrac, but Combeferre was in the habit of mentoring Joly through the more difficult aspects of medical school and clearly expected to be asked for advice. Joly rubbed his nose uncertainly. “Well then, have you any idea  how to respark the interest of a grisette?”

Combeferre blinked. “Ah....” He glanced at Courfeyrac.

The unhelpful Courfeyrac smiled and leaned his chair back on two legs. He was satisfied with himself for throwing the Charter into the fire and was now in a teasing mood. “Oh no. You are the polymath Combeferre-- have you any advice for your young protege?”

Combeferre had no idea, but gamely tried anyways. “Ah. Hm. That is-- that is a very complicated matter. The... ah... mating habits of the Parisian medical student has never... formally been studied... I am sure it would make for a very interesting article, they must be... very... unlike... moths.”

“Moths,” repeated Joly.

“Go on,” said Courfeyrac, vastly entertained. “The law student and the medical student, according to your implied assumptions, are of an entirely different species. Our ‘mating habits,’ as you term them, are incompatible, I’m sure.”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Ah... perhaps one ought to... reflect upon birds instead of moths. A... colorful display shown to best advantage in a dance or a-- a show of some sort. A, er... does she have a favorite alkali metal?”

“A favorite alkali metal?” Joly repeated, sure he must have misheard.

In some desperation, Combeferre continued on with his theory. “Yes, when you put them in water they explode, it is a sight to make the pulse race-- a racing pulse is often listed as a symptom of love--”

Joly immediately turned to Courfeyrac. “Do you have any idea on how to regain the attention of a beautiful, literary grisette who sulks at you with cruel persistence?”

“Leather trousers from Staubs,” said Bahorel, in a sing-song.

“He’s not wrong,” said Courfeyrac, folding his arms behind his head. “And Combeferre, don’t look so pained, it’s still--” with a faint tremor in his voice “--a colorful display, shown to best advantage in a dance.”

Joly was more inclined to trust Courfeyrac on these matters. “And that’ll do it, you think?”

“It’ll certainly regain her attention,” said Courfeyrac. “To keep it though, I advise one, learning to listen to her properly, and two, either apologize for the argument, or, if you really are in the right, subtly provide evidence to prove your point, but allow her to draw her own conclusions. No one likes being wrong, least of all a woman. Three, being a... shall we say generous lover? Her pleasure is paramount. And, you know, you can very easily find your own pleasure in that of your partner.”

“But,” countered Bahorel, “one cannot negotiate treaties of the kind Courfeyrac mentions without having gained the attention of Mamselle-- and for that, one cannot fail in skin-tight leather trousers.”

“Well,” said Joly, a little dubiously, “the peacock must display to the peahen; one must take lessons from the book of nature.”

The tailor at Staub’s was perhaps the least sincere in his recommendation, but Joly, armed with the approbation of both Bahorel and Courfeyrac, was easily persuaded. Grantaire was even more easily persuaded, though he exclaimed, “Not that I really need them-- I could have any girl for the asking, if I felt so inclined. One risks gilding the lily, but even Jupiter was said to clothe himself in animal skins when desirous of making a good impression.”

“One must always follow the example of Jupiter, sir,” replied the tailor. “If you will step this way, my assistant will take your measurements.”

Grantaire winked at her and then, as she was looping a knotted cord around his waist, began to flirt with her in so awkward a manner Joly and Bahorel were forced to try increasingly desperate and incoherent sign-language to get him to stop.

Within two minutes, the grisette trying to take his measurements was smoldering with rage.

“You’ll want to leave plenty of room,” said Grantaire, leering at her as she measured his inseam.

“You’re going to want to watch your balls before they get hit,” said Bahorel, giving up on sign-language.

“It’s not my balls but my-- ah! Pluto in the underworld!”

“I did request that Monsieur stand still,” said the grisette, as Grantaire crumpled to the ground.

Joly made sure to stand perfectly still and to talk in loud tones to Bahorel about Saint-Simonian philosophy. Unfortunately for Joly, this was about as good a choice as Grantaire’s; another customer eyed them suspiciously, and made sure to note down when the three of them would be returning for their finished leather trousers.

Joly, his thoughts bent towards Musichetta, did not notice that another customer had serendipitously turned up at Staub’s the exact same day and time the three of them were expected. Bahorel noted it and though he assumed Staub’s just took the same amount of time to make anyone a pair of trousers, he had the native wariness of the French peasant. Centuries of oppression had instilled in him the instinct to separate the world into two broad categories: bosom friends, in whom his trust ran marrow-deep, and people who needed to be punched. The severity of the necessary punch varied depending on a multitude of factors, of course, but by the way the other customer was listening in on their conversation, Bahorel was tempted to upgrade him to ‘right-hook to the jaw,’ his typical reaction to police spies. Police spies were everywhere, and, since Joly had decided to expound upon the equality of the sexes and universal education in public, it was not an unreasonable assumption that a police spy was now suspicious of Joly. Bahorel sat in the corner and very closely watched the other customer.

Grantaire was not a handsome man and was now looking at himself in the mirror with genuine pleasure for perhaps the first time. He even seemed to be sneaking sips from his flask out of joy than habit. Bahorel ignored the long stream of classical allusions that Grantaire seemed to vomit forth whenever anyone gave him the chance to speak. The other customer was actually taking notes. That was a bad sign.

Joly, however, was having difficulties. He had managed to get himself into his trousers but, since the tailor’s assistant had taken his actual measurements, the trousers were skin-tight. This would not have been a problem if the newness of the leather hadn’t made ambulatory motion rather more difficult than it needed to be. “Sausage meat probably has more space to move about in its casing than my legs in these trousers.”

“Then we have achieved the ideal fit,” said the tailor, smiling to himself in satisfaction. “If sir will only take a look in the mirror, sir would see what a magnificent effect the trousers produce!”

And the tailor wasn’t wrong-- Joly was a little over average height, thin and long-legged. Doeskin trousers perfectly suited him, and when one added to this a woebegone look (Joly had a strange rash on his arm he could not diagnose and rather feared was ring-worm), made him look as stylishly and Romantically languishing, as any young lady could possibly wish.

“Ah, the ladies will not be able to keep their eyes off of you,” exclaimed the tailor, delighted with his handiwork.

“There’s just the one I’d like to impress,” said Joly, trying to keep his eyes on his leather trousers instead of his rash. “Am I supposed to be able to bend my legs more?”

“No,” said the tailor.

“Ah, fine then.” Joly paid and, much to Bahorel’s mixed horror and eagerness, said that now he must be off to a publisher in the Palais-Royale. Said publisher was nearly infamous for getting into trouble with Charles X’s censors. Truthfully Joly wished to go there because Musichetta had recently picked up some temporary work there, stitching together the latest three volume Gothic romance, but the publisher’s specialty happened to be borderline illegal pamphlets that leaned heavily to the left. When Joly added to this that a friend of theirs (Courfeyrac, though Joly didn’t name names) liked to have a drink in a cafe nearby (a cafe where Desmoulins had leapt onto a table and helped start the storming of the Bastille), the other customer snapped shut his little commonplace book and raced out of the store.

Bahorel upgraded the police spy to ‘punch to the throat.’

Grantaire had finished off his flask and was discussing stopping off at the Musain for another drink when Bahorel noticed they were being followed. Bahorel did not precisely wish for a fight, but if the opportunity presented himself, he certainly wouldn’t turn it down. ‘Three students, two of whom were in doeskin trousers’ would not be likely to lead to them again, given the number of Latin Quarter love affairs that involved Staub’s sooner or later, and Bahorel preferred a brief, bare-knuckle fight over being stalked home by a police spy.

Bahorel counted footsteps and shadows, every now and then pausing briefly to stare at the reflected street behind him in store windows. His excitement dimmed somewhat when he realized that the police spy had gathered together four of his closest friends for the task, but Bahorel was already in the state of heightened awareness that always precluded a fight. He was something of a connoisseur of street violence; he could always tell when the diverse elements were coming together, when the tipping point would come-- and there it was, the little group was getting closer, almost uncomfortably close, as Joly and Grantaire were swapping puns about Greek mythology.

“--but,” said Joly, looking very pleased with himself, “I don’t think anyone would disagree that Oedipus was one unfortunate motherfucker. Oh blast, we nearly missed our turning here.”

‘Ah,’ thought Bahorel, as the three of them swerved quickly onto a side street, ‘there is the tipping point.’

The group picked up their pace to follow Bahorel, Joly and Grantaire.

“We’re being followed,” said Bahorel, interrupting a pun about governmental corruption and the ministers keeping Charles X waiting (i.e. ‘les ministres, Charles attend’ which sounded a great deal like, ‘les ministres charlatans’ or ‘the charlatan ministers’) before the police spies could understand Joly’s joke. “Pick up the pace.”

Joly and Grantaire immediately followed suit. The boots of the police spies thudded in a noisy _accelerando_ behind them.

“Let’s go for a run,” suggested Bahorel.

“Sounds fun,” agreed Joly.

Near the Palais-Royal, as they were walking back to the Latin Quarter for the evening Musichetta and Rosalie were surprised to see Bahorel and Joly race by, Grantaire not very far behind them.

Musichetta watched Joly’s progress up the street. “Was that...?”

“I think it was Joly with Bahorel,” said Rosalie. Then, after a minute, she said, “He’s got a nice ass.”

“Well yes,” admitted Musichetta, regretting that the street ahead curved behind a building.

“Oh cheer up, that’s actually a cul-de-sac,” said Rosalie.

And, sure enough, the three came racing back onto the street, looking perfectly bewildered.

“Oh hell,” said Bahorel. “We’re two streets farther than I thought we were.”

“I don’t think I can run any longer, my joint movements have been severely impaired,” Joly panted, in a panic. He had stumbled to a stop, leaning against a building. He tried to bend his knees, with limited success.

“Well,” said Bahorel, “that’s... five against three, I’ve had worse odds.”

Drunk, out of breath, dizzy and entirely confused, Grantaire walked into a wall.

“Five against two,” amended Bahorel.

“I don’t think I can actually bend my knees,” said Joly.

“Five against one-and-a-half,” Bahorel growled, not very pleased with this new arithmetic. “You have your walking stick, though, did Enjolras ever teach you _canne de combat_?”

“Some-- it’s almost but entirely unlike fencing,” replied Joly.

“That is almost but entirely unlike a useful skill right now,” said Bahorel. “Grantaire-- Grantaire, wake up! You know _canne de combat_ , don’t you? Take Joly’s cane.”

“Hrnablrg,” said Grantaire, or something close to it.

With much difficulty, Joly knelt down besides Grantaire to check for any signs of a concussion. He was still almost on hands and knees when the group of police spies and police officers came upon them. Bahorel cracked his knuckles.

“Well,” he said, philosophically, as he punched the first offender in the gut, “more for me.”

The second gentleman launched himself at Bahorel, who stepped out of the way, and allowed said gentleman to trip over Joly and smash into the wall.

“You robbers will get nothing from us!” roared Bahorel, for the benefit of anyone passing by, or for any of the police spies who were still uncertain if they were tracking dangerous revolutionaries.

“Nothing!” Joly added, as he managed to get Grantaire up into the _canne de combat_ stance known as ‘the frog.’

“Three-and-a-half to nearly two,” Bahorel said. Joly shoved his cane into Grantiare’s hand and Grantaire, bleary and confused, fell into habit. He swung the cane in a circle over his head, in what was known as a _moulinet horizontale_ , which caused the third challenger to stumble backwards. Bahorel launched himself at the third man, grabbing him around the middle and knocking him to the cobblestones.

The first man, who had been the police spy in Staub’s, managed to stand upright again and, taking out a nightstick, tried to attack Grantaire. Graintre swung the cane up to block it, before performing a _croisé tête_ , angling himself diagonally, bringing the cane around in a circle before bringing the cane down to meet the nightstick. Joly rather unchivalrously flung himself against the back of the police sky’s knees and knocked him forward-- and unfortunately onto Grantaire.

Both men dropped their sticks and began to grapple with each other rather pathetically.

“Three to three,” said Bahorel, amidst what appeared to be a particularly unscrupulous savate match with the police spy.

The odds then improved four to three; Courfeyrac really had been drinking with a party of friends at one of the many liberal cafes in the Palais-Royale, and broke off from them upon hearing a fight down a side street. Courfeyrac wandered down it, and spotting Bahorel, exclaimed, “Why, hello there fellows! Indulging in sport, so close to dinner?”

“It wasn’t our choice,” said Joly, ducking to avoid the last two spies who, quarreling among themselves, could not decide how to attack. At least the actual police officer shoved a spy forward-- Joly ducked under the spy’s outstretched arms and grabbed his cane.

“Are you in trouble?” slurred Courfeyrac, his instinctive chivalry only enhanced by brandy.

“Courfeyrac, glad you’re here,” said Bahorel, knocking out his opponent with a particularly vicious uppercut.  “This man’s a police officer. He needs to have his helmet stolen.”

“I don’t think that they like that,” said Courfeyrac, a little dubiously.

“Of course they do,” said Bahorel. “It’s like bull-fighting. The bulls like it as much as the men. Does a policeman good to have his helmet stolen.”

“Oh, well, if that’s the case,” said Courfeyrac, cheerfully launching himself into the fray. He yanked the police officer’s hat off and, waving it overhead, began running down the street. The police officer, not very pleased at this, turned around.

“He’s got my hat!” exclaimed the police officer.

“Ow,” said his colleague as Joly managed to successfully imitate Grantiare’s _moulinet horizontale_ , and hit him hard across the temple. Joly’s opponent did a stupid twirl and fell onto the cobblestones.

“ _Canne de combat_ and leather trousers,” remarked Musichetta, a little faintly. “ _Pardi!_ What a wonderful combination.”

“Like white wine and _cassis_ ,” agreed Rosalie. “I hope Bahorel doesn’t break his nose again though, I was just starting to like the way it looked.”

“Give that back!” shouted the police officer, turning his back on Bahorel. “That’s police property.”

“It’s been appropriated by the Republic,” replied Courfeyrac, dashing madly back to the main road.

At Bahorel’s urging, Joly brought his cane down hard on the police officer’s now unprotected pate.

Grantaire, having finally thrown off his opponent, staggered upright. Bahorel nodded, satisfied at the five unconscious and half-conscious bodies around them, and motioned for Grantaire and Joly to step over the bodies first.

“Not bad for your first street fight,” said Bahorel, to Joly. Bahorel knelt to take the original police spy’s commonplace book. It wasn’t like the police spy minded; he was unconscious.

“And all this without the use of my legs,” replied Joly.

“Your _canne de combat_ stance needs a little work,” said Grantaire. He perked up at the idea of a new partner. “I’ll teach you. I shall be Mentor, we shall battle off chimeras, furies, three-headed dogs, winged horses--”

“I think I’ll need a stronger walking stick if we’re going to be fighting all of those,” replied Joly, rubbing his nose with the knob of his cane.

Musichetta and Rosalie turned to each other, reluctantly pleased with what had transpired.  

“I really don’t think you win the moral victory by denying yourself access to that ass,” observed Rosalie. “What was the quarrel about anyways?”

“Oh, um,” said Musichetta, tearing her eyes away from Joly’s backside, “I got the job at the book-binder’s because they were short-staffed-- police crack-down on anti-religious sentiment. My predecessor couldn’t come to work, she and her lover were arrested for writing a supposedly anonymous anti-clerical tract.”

“Well,” said Rosalie, rather reasonably, “it seems our Monsieur Joly can handle himself against police officers. You don’t have to worry about that. And anyways, he’s bourgeois, the law works differently for them.”

This was very true, and the sight of Joly walking in front of her, in his skin-tight leather trousers, seemed like a very good reason to forgive and forget. Musichetta and Rosalie stepped out onto the main street.

“Hallo,” said Bahorel, cheerfully. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Rosalie chuckled. “According to your standards I suppose so! Musichetta and I weren’t expecting such a show before dinner.”

“I suppose that’s a hint,” said Bahorel. “Well, it is our agreed upon evening-- we must keep to our contract.”

Rosalie snorted. “Lord, ain’t you a law student.”

“You wound me.”

“You did that to yourself,” observed Rosalie, taking out her handkerchief. “Let me see those knuckles.”

Joly spotted Musichetta and nervously swung around his cane. “Er... hi Musichetta.”

“Hi,” said Musichetta. “So, do you often practice _canne de combat_?”

“Er, I can?” Joly hazarded, with a glance at Grantaire who, happy at the idea of another partner merely nodded instead of leering at Musichetta.

Musichetta favored Joly with a slow, almost wicked smile. “Well then, I won’t have any quarrel with you.”

“Told you,” muttered Bahorel, as Rosalie, with a chuckle at the unconscious bodies strewn across the road behind him, began bandaging his knuckles with her handkerchief. “You ought to always take fashion advice from me.”

Musichetta, overhearing this, said, “Then apparently there’s a new Latin Quarter uniform-- _canne de combat_ , rash waistcoats and leather trousers.” After another contented glance at Joly, Musichetta laughed and said, “I can’t say that I mind.”

 


End file.
